Aren't We Perfect?
by Baby Morrison
Summary: Remus reads over old love-letters --M/M, RL/SS, RL/SB--


What in the world am I getting myself into?

I hadn't spoken to Severus since school, yet, there I was, looking over these old love notes.

These are from a gap in my relationship with Sirius; a temporary pause of uncertainty, a clash of his fiery temper and my finally-exhausted patience. Poems, all of them. And somewhere (unless he's thrown them out, which may be more likely) he has a stack of my replies, poetry as well. It was a subtle art of expression, and he could convey his thoughts in no other way, as if direct communication would make him somehow too vulnerable.

I simply enjoyed poetry, that form of communication that Sirius would never have understood; his mind was, while sharp, fairly conventional, and in the course of our on-and-off, he wrote me two poems, which still sit, folded and worn, in a compartment of my briefcase. Beautiful but formulaic.

This says nothing of my love for either of them; if anything, I loved Sirius more, and I was certainly with him far longer. But Severus, from the moment we met until our messy parting of ways and our eventual resolution to stay friendly at arm's length…he held a fascination for me.

And now, out of the blue that fascination has returned tenfold, though I thought I had crushed it.

Simple emotional turmoil weakening my defenses, in all likelihood.

But last I heard, Severus' poems had turned to Lily.

She was my friend, my good friend, but God, how I hated her for that. To be honest, I'm not sure that I've forgiven her entirely, even though she's been more than loving and faithful to James. Even after Sirius and I picked things back up after we finished school, I didn't forgive her.

Because she loved him.

And if he would have given up his Mark…

But he hadn't of course, and Lily died married and faithful. And then, out of the blue, he had. I wonder if it was for her.

I'm deluding myself, of course it was for her.

I overheard James and Lily fighting one evening shortly before they went into hiding. Sirius and I were staying with them on holiday. James had taken a letter from an owl. Without looking at the name on the envelope, he had opened it.

It was a poem.

She insisted it meant nothing and threw it out.

I looked at it later, while they were asleep. It was a long and passionate account of his sleepless nights, proclaiming that he loved her, he'd never leave her, that he would be waiting for the day when James finally hurt her.

I asked Sirius to leave early the next morning; as much as the letter had made me sick with jealousy, mad with rage, I knew I'd never forgive myself if I took it out on Lily.

I wonder who he writes his poems to now.

Or does he still leave love notes at her grave?

He still works with the Order. I catch glimpses of him from across the room, or handle his reports, or hear other members mention his name. Most of them still hate him, and I join in when they mock him, more viciously than anyone because I love him. Sometimes, they look surprised that I'm capable of such malice towards anybody.

They expect me to hate Sirius so strongly. But I don't. When someone mentions him, I go quiet. And then so does everyone else. Because what Severus has done to me is petty, and I can make myself feel better about it by lashing out at him behind his back, by making believe that I feel nothing but contempt for him. What Sirius did was unforgivable, and as much as I want to, I can't find even a trace of the love I felt for him.

And maybe that's why I'm here now.

The meeting has cleared, for the most part. People are filing out.

I approach him, smile politely, though on the inside, I'm shaking like mad and my stomach's tying itself in knots.

I steel myself to reach out, to tell him, to tell him everything I've felt since I left school, but knowing full-well that I won't. I'll make conversation. Listen if he has anything to say, which he sometimes does but usually doesn't.

He straightens his papers curtly, that old familiar shell of superiority transparent to someone who really knows him.

He's broken.

He's terrified.

Aren't we perfect for one another?


End file.
